


The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Canon Divergence, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Trauma, Estranged Friends to Lovers, M/M, Part Epistolary, Podfic Available, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Rosie Watson has a very minor role, Seaside, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sussex, Translation Available, an early one though, as in ‘I have no idea what an Eurus is’, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, life in the countryside, musings about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: Sherlock escapes London for a quiet, solitary life in Sussex, exhausted after the whirlwind of drama following Mary’s death.One day, a letter arrives.





	The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [La muerte y resurrección de un apicultor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921735) by [randomfandoms7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomfandoms7/pseuds/randomfandoms7)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Смерть и воскрешение пчеловода (The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614021) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> This fic started with a few ideas from Lars Gustafsson’s book _The Death of a Beekeeper_. Then it just… sort of happened. Rest assured that it does not follow the plot of the book at all.  
> Many thanks to [hotshoe_again](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotshoe_again/pseuds/hotshoe_again) and [wildishmazz/scribblesandscreeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblesandscreeds) for beta and brit-pick work!  
> The lovely [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx) did a [brilliant podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550275) of this work! Thank you Podders!  
> The talented [Khorazir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/) created [this beautiful illustration](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/614307833395216384/the-second-of-my-four-fth2020fanworks-for) for [Fandom Trumps Hate 2020](https://fandomtrumpshate.dreamwidth.org/). It's so close to my mental image of the scene it's uncanny. Go check it out (it's spoiler free)!

> "Pain is a landscape."  
>  Lars Gustafsson, _En biodlares död_ ( _The Death of a Beekeeper_ )

The letter sleeps on the small kitchen table, cold, mocking. A regular size envelope, milky white, ordinary stamp.

Sherlock will not open it. What for? What would be the point of sliding his finger under the flap of the envelope, slipping the paper from within, and reading words disgorged by an impersonal pen? The same pen that wrote Sherlock’s current address in Sussex; a Bic Cristal, black, 1.0 mm pen, so commonplace.

To open the letter is to give veracity to its contents. To shape them into a concrete weapon.

Sherlock stares at the offending item a beat longer, then leaves the kitchen to tend to his beehives.

Late-afternoon tea in his hand, Sherlock loses himself in his thoughts. The small back garden is quiet, the setting sun paints the lilac bushes in gold and old rose, and the buzzing of myriad insects quiets down. He wonders, not for the first time, why he has two chairs round the small mosaic-clad table – a wrought iron ensemble with swirly art nouveau patterns, bought second-hand in Worthing. Not antique, but obviously used and well-loved for many years.

He always takes the same chair, and the other gapes emptily as if expecting someone to come and claim it. But nobody comes, and that really is for the best.

It’s been a year or so since Sherlock left Baker Street, left London. He had to go. He just _had_ to.

There had been the one visit from Mycroft, just over a month ago, when the spring was still early and chilly but the sun warm enough for tea outdoors. For one afternoon the second patio chair had had its use. The brothers had sat in silence, drinking tea with honey and biscuits.

‘You don’t have to do this, brother mine,’ was Mycroft’s only remark between sips of Earl Grey, not reproachful but rather soft, a lament of things lost and gone.

‘I know,’ had been the solitary answer, and that was that. Mycroft had left later in the evening, in time for supper in London, and Sherlock stayed behind in his small cottage with his doubts and memories.

Inside, the letter rests still on the kitchen table. The contents? Probably a rehash of the endless cycle of hate and regret that marked Sherlock’s last months on Baker Street. Why open it and make real the words that cut through Sherlock’s chest, deeper than Mary’s bullet? At least that pain had been quantifiable, justifiable, understandable.

Mary’s death sent everything to hell, himself included. There had been one letter already, delivered by Molly’s trembling hand. There had been a tumbling cascade of events since.

Sherlock feels very tired all of a sudden, bone-weary and listless. He could swear he wouldn’t even have the energy to lift the now empty mug of tea from the mosaic-clad table. He watches as the colourful pattern acquires a golden hue from the sunset, rubs a finger on a stain. It doesn’t come off. It’s part of the pattern now, there forever until the table is no more. He lifts his hand to examine his nails and cuticles, dry and dirty and damaged from his daily chores.

If someone told him years ago he would be retiring in his early forties to the countryside, tending beehives, a small flowery garden, and a vegetable patch, he would have rolled his eyes and snorted in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes, leaving London and becoming _countrified_? Preposterous.

How arrogant he had been. These days, he can’t even imagine returning. Mrs Hudson was teary but understanding, claiming she would not rent out the flat _just in case, dear, maybe you’ll change your mind?_ and Sherlock had nodded even knowing he would never set foot back in 221B, ever again. He’d felt bad for leaving her all by herself, despite her assurances on her having Mrs Taylor and Mr Chatterjee (they’re on friendly terms again despite that thing about him having _wives_ elsewhere but that was all history, and frankly Sherlock didn’t want to know the lurid details about his landlady’s love life).

He hasn’t completely let go – there’s still the occasional contact from Lestrade, asking his opinion on this or that; a few private clients, too. All issues that can be solved by phone or e-mail. No chases, no break-ins, no snooping around.

It’s… fine. It’s different. He’s changed too. It is what it is.

He gets the occasional e-mail from Molly and phone call from Mrs Hudson, short exchanges of pleasantries that nevertheless break the silence that otherwise reigns over his days. Molly sends him photos of unusual marks on corpses and other gory details only the two of them can really talk about, with the special brand of dark humour that comes from being around dead people for a good part of your work hours. Sherlock is grateful – she’s not technically allowed to share such details, but that’s what friends are for, right? Mrs Hudson insisted on getting his address so she could send him biscuits; Sherlock makes a mental note to send her some of his honey.

John does not contact him.

Sherlock closes his eyes against the last rays of sunshine. He doesn’t expect John to contact him. Not after… _after_. John breaking down in his arms broke something inside Sherlock too; his sobs and tears drenching Sherlock’s dressing gown seeped through his still sore ribcage and pooled somewhere inside. On his birthday. The rest of that day had passed in a blur, with Molly and John taking him for cake. _Cake_. As if there was something worthy of celebration. As he sat in that _cake place_ with a slice of something complicated, layers of chocolate and twirls of salted caramel and sprinkles of god knows what, he’d had enough. He had had enough. He was hurt and sad and angry and confused, and what was the point of anything at all? John and Molly babbled something about Rosie and the weather and Sherlock had enough. John had beaten him to a pulp, and at the time Sherlock thought he _deserved_ it. And now they were eating cake after _John_ had broken down.

When was _Sherlock_ allowed to break down too?

He still remembers bits of what happened after, even though he tries to drown his memories in dregs of cooling tea and relentless work on his newfound patch of solitude. How he stood and left the patisserie without another word. How John rushed after him, calling out his name with increasing urgency. How Sherlock shouted back at him, how he didn’t need charity, he didn’t need help, he didn’t need fucking cake, he didn’t need John. How John flinched at his harsh words. How Sherlock continued with _You never even apologised for hurting me!_ as he pointed to his injured eye, conscious that there was a kernel of unfairness, given that John had rescued him from Culverton Smith’s murderous intentions, but that had not healed the hurt from the one man he… the one person he ever… from _John_ , of all people, shunning him, hating him. Had his rescue been out of a sense of obligation?

And so, Sherlock had left, and never heard a word again from John.

Which is why the letter on the kitchen table now mocks him with a return address from John H. Watson.

Sherlock will not open it. John had been appalled, confused and then livid at Sherlock’s outburst in the middle of a busy London street. The fight had been ugly and visceral, people staring as they walked by, others pointedly ignoring the row. Molly surging behind John, tears springing to her kind eyes.

What could possibly be in John’s letter that had not been said already? Its contents will neither erase the past nor will they change the future. The days stretch ahead, long and locked in Sherlock’s new routines. One after the other will pass, as his hair turns grey and his wrinkles deepen, as he harvests honey from his beehives, plants another cabbage, answers another e-mail. He experiments with new applications for beeswax, indexes local wildflowers, analyses the soil. It’s enough. Isn’t it?

This thought energises Sherlock to get up and go inside, find the morning newspaper and slap it decidedly on top the letter. He’ll forget about its existence, probably burn it the next time he lights a fire, an epistolary Schrödinger forever lost and unknown.

He starts prepping dinner.

Weeks pass; the springtime attempts to melt into warm summer days. Sherlock checks on his bees – this will be a good harvest, and he should be proud of the work he invested a year ago on these beehives. The previous year had been tumultuous: his need to get away from everything and everybody had almost driven him back to his seven percent solution. But he resisted, and a glance at properties for sale on the countryside planted an idea in his head. Two months later, he was halfway through the renovations on the almost-derelict cottage – enough to make it liveable. Enough to prompt him to move on a cold late March day. The rest of the year was filled with a lot of trial and error on the workings of living in the countryside, the nearest neighbour a good two kilometres away and the town a little further than that. He threw himself into this new project, grabbed on to it as a lifeline, focused his intellect on learning everything about beekeeping, dug up weeds and wild bushes and started growing his own vegetables. He didn’t harvest any honey last year, let the bees have it to consolidate the colonies, and now here is the payoff in the shape of a thick layer of amber goodness, well on its way to being fully capped. He thinks he will harvest soon, and let the hives fill again with fresh summer honey, risk a second, late harvest this year.

The morning papers pile up on the seldom-used kitchen table.

His initial methodical approach to gardening and beekeeping gave way to a more amorphous relationship with the surrounding nature. Sherlock has come to realise a lot of his work is more about feeling what is right to do than following a strict schedule and predefined rules. He’s had to accept a new vulnerability to do so, bring out something from within himself he had tried to bury a long time ago, which has had its mixed consequences. Here is a tomato he planted while recalling a vicious kick on his ribs. There, a patch of herbs he sorted while _anyone but you_ echoed in his thoughts. There’s sage and coriander and basil, fragrant as he smears leaves between calloused fingers, desperately trying to push away the smell of John’s shampoo as he buried his nose in his hair. Sherlock had wanted to taste John’s tears, but he knew better than to try.

He tastes his own, sometimes. He’s run away from London to escape memories that stubbornly cling on to him and now hang on every bit of his garden. Pain is a landscape.

Sherlock uproots a handful of dandelions and tries to forget. He had been getting better, he really had, but that damned letter showed up and took hold of Sherlock’s thoughts. Even unopened and largely ignored, it burns bright underneath the pile of newspapers.

While the previous summer was mostly sunny with pleasant temperatures, this one is shaping up to be filled with thunderstorms and abrupt changes in weather. Sherlock doesn’t mind. He likes the contrasts, the randomness of the lightning strike, the violence of the thunderclap, the petrichor after the rain. He’s almost done with today’s chores minus the watering – there will be plenty coming from the skies soon enough; dark clouds loom over the characteristic oppressive heat that precedes the storm. He retreats inside with a handful of sun-ripe tomatoes that will become a pasta sauce in a couple of hours. As he finishes his evening shower, the skies open and drown the landscape in diluvian white noise.

Sherlock sits in his chair in the sitting room, facing the large French doors, and observes the late June rain for a few moments. A flash of lightning sears across the sky; the sound of thunder follows five seconds after. Close. Idly, Sherlock considers what would happen if lightning strikes this old house. There’s a lightning rod and a surge-protection system, of course, but what if they failed? What if Sherlock were to step outside now and just… walk into the storm?

Would it be so different compared to how lifeless he feels now? His days are filled but aimless. His small achievements remain unshared in the cocoon of his loneliness.

He thinks of the bees; how unfair it would be for them to be abandoned if something happened to him. The thought sends a shudder through his body and shakes him out of his dark thoughts. He remembers the bloody letter and blames it for the downturn of his mood. He should just chuck it in the rubbish bin; why hasn’t he done so yet?

It’s pouring properly now, pelting loud on the old shingles and the windowpanes. Yet, Sherlock’s acute sense of hearing picks up an extra sound. It is unmistakable: there is a car parking in front of his door. The crunching of gravel under heavy tyres is almost drowned by the rain, but just almost. It’s too late for the postman, and Mycroft knows better than to show up unannounced. Maybe a neighbour, but in this weather? Some sort of emergency?

As he gets up and walks to the door, he hears a car door slamming shut. One person only, then. Before they have the chance to rap at his door, Sherlock opens it.

Getting pitifully drenched, one hand ready to knock on the door, stands John.

The moment stretches long between Sherlock’s initial shock and John breaking the silence.

“May I come in? Bit wet out here.”

Sherlock nods stupidly. Steps aside. John steps in.

They take a long look at each other.

Sherlock breaks the moment, clears his throat. “Bit of a dramatic entrance,” he waves at the inclement weather as he closes the door. Stereotypical, really. A cliché that would normally made them giggle. 

“Ha. Yeah. Should have checked the weather forecast beforehand, I guess.”

There’s no humour left, though.

Sherlock says the only thing he can think of. “Tea?”

“God, yes.” An exhale of relief.

They sit on opposite armchairs in the sitting room a few minutes later, cups of tea in hand and a plate of biscuits between them. Yet another pair of furniture arranged for two instead of one, for some unfathomable reason. Sherlock dwells not on this. Instead, he observes John as he blows gentle ripples across the surface of his Earl Grey and takes tentative sips, testing the temperature. A towel thrown over his shoulders, to absorb the worst of the rain. He watches as John licks his lower lip nervously and glances up at Sherlock with a mix of apprehension and hope. He waits as John seems to be about to say something, then regret it.

Sherlock loses his – admittedly short – patience. “What are you doing here?” The question is harsher than he intended but he doesn’t regret the tone. What _is_ John doing here? _Why_ has he come to disrupt Sherlock’s peace?

John deflates and sets his cup down on the coffee table. He clasps his hands, letting them hang between his knees, shoulders lowered with an invisible weight.

“I sent you a letter. You never replied, so I thought maybe you didn’t get it, or. I don’t know.”

“I got your letter.”

John exhales a small _Oh_. Sherlock continues, “I didn’t open it.”

John scrunches his eyebrows, bemused. “Why not?”

Why not? _Why not?_ A wave of anger floods Sherlock, of the likes he hadn’t felt in a long while. He also sets his cup down, sits straight, and unleashes his wrath: “Why not! Why would I! What would be the point of it? What has happened will not change, and whatever is in that letter will not alter the future! Whatever happens, happens, and I will embrace it regardless of your prose!”

He is shouting, chest heaving, moving menacingly to the edge of his seat, and John is so, so still, staring at him in shock. His expression morphs into one of infinite sadness, but this doesn’t stop Sherlock from giving a final crushing blow: “ _Why_ are you here, hmm? To tut at my _lifestyle_? To gawk at my isolation? To remind me of how I am not allowed to fail or leave or feel pain or heartbreak or be the least bit _human_?”

Sherlock is not expecting answers. He lashes out at John because it’s his only possible reaction to this invasion. He flails himself open, his chest emotionally scarred, a brotherhood of blood with the healed physical scars on his back. He is sure this will be the point where John will get up and leave, out into the rainstorm, or shout back, or anything equally violent and emotional, and _god_ how liberating a good shouting match would be right now, a year of pent-up frustration and resentment finally being let out.

What he doesn’t expect though, is to see a single tear track down John’s cheek, landing on his upper lip. John doesn’t brush it away.

“I’m here,” he proceeds carefully, his voice trembling but clear, “to reiterate the question I asked in the letter.” Before Sherlock protests again, John lifts a shaking palm. “Please, just. Hear me this once and I promise I will leave you alone after. Forever,” he swallows thickly, “if that’s what you wish.”

Sherlock is shaking but answers him with a sharp nod. It seems he cannot escape the destiny written in black Bic Cristal after all, because it has chased him down from London into Sussex, across hilltops and narrow roads, through severe weather and right into his doorstep.

“I can’t—I can’t go on with the knowledge of how much I hurt you. Obviously, given your reaction just now…” Sherlock scoffs while John trudges on. “I was selfish. I blamed you for events you had no control over. I punished you, pushed you away, and the one time I laid hands on you was to deliver punches and kicks instead of… comfort or... at a time you were—you were most vulnerable.” John inhales raggedly, exhales. Inhales, exhales. Slides his gaze away from Sherlock’s to an undefined point behind him, then back at Sherlock. Takes a deep breath. “And then I just broke down in your presence instead of being the friend you needed.” He swallows, once, twice. “I am here to apologise for all the hurt I caused you. And to ask for your forgiveness. God knows I don’t deserve it, and I don’t actually expect it, to be honest. It is yours to give or not give, not for me to claim.” The last bit is delivered with an uncontained, raw sob. He takes another shaky breath, controls himself. “There was some more but, um. Maybe now’s not the time.”

Sherlock is petrified in his seat. There is probably something socially acceptable he should be replying, but his insides twist and turn, torn between hurt and… and. And whatever he feels for this man that fills him with an undefined warmth. But he cannot be weak. Not now, not when he was recovering, gluing back pieces of his broken self, gaining back his ground and his self-respect, one bee colony, one planted vegetable, one cross-pollinated flower at a time. His heart squeezes with the need to open his arms and accept John’s apology; his carefully constructed new life is telling him to not jeopardize the precarious equilibrium he has found in this corner of England.

Is forgiveness empowerment or weakness?

It’s still pouring outside.

He is aware that he’s been silent for a beat too long, but John should be used to him getting lost in his head and not replying until he feels ready to do so. Only, Sherlock is anything but lost in his head right now. He is, instead, calculating a myriad of different variables to predict possible outcomes. There is something about the rain outside though that is distracting him, something…

“The road.”

John lifts an eyebrow, clearly not expecting ‘the road’ to be any sort of sensical answer to his speech. “Pardon?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and settles back on the armchair. Yes, there is a more immediate issue at hand, a practical one, something that is immediately fixable and devoid of sentiment. “The path is very likely flooded seven hundred metres from my doorstep, and for at least two hundred metres further down the road. Uneven terrain. It is improbable that it will become traversable until at least half a day after this rain stops. Your car is not capable of passing the flooded area; it will drown the motor.” He gets suddenly up from his seat – the additional height over John turns his confidence up a few notches. “There’s pasta with tomato and basil sauce for dinner in half an hour, the loo is at the end of the hallway, and you can have the sofa.” John is visibly stunned by Sherlock’s outburst, then is shaken out of his frozen state by Sherlock’s fast realisation of something else missing.

“Where’s Watson?”

“Wat… oh, um, Rosie is staying with Stella and Ted, didn’t want to bring her in case…” He lets the sentence unfinished, the ellipsis completed in Sherlock’s head: _in case you would throw me out, in case you would make a scene, in case you would think I was using her as leverage, in case I broke down_.

Sherlock disappears into the kitchen.

It’s ten minutes before John comes into the kitchen. Sherlock is dimly aware of him making a phone call out in the sitting room, no doubt to arrange Rosie’s unexpectedly prolonged stay. He is setting a pot of water to boil next to a smaller pan with a bubbling tomato sauce when John clears his throat behind him.

“Can I help with anything? Smells delicious.” John’s voice is small despite the obvious attempt to appear relaxed. As if this was a normal night back at Baker Street, a domestic scene without need for rehearsal, so many times it had been repeated in the past. Despite his nonchalance towards his Transport, Sherlock did cook sometimes, and always got appreciative remarks from John. The memory tilts Sherlock slightly off his axis again, and he wonders not for the first time after John shadowed his doorstep whether he will ever find his way back. Back to what, though? He’s feeling more and more like a spinning top with increasing precession around its rotating axis, and everybody knows what eventually happens to a spinning top when it loses its battle with friction and gravity.

“You can set the table.” Sherlock grabs a handful of coarsely chopped basil leaves and throws them into the tomato sauce, giving it a good stir. He watches as the water for the pasta boils, uses this as an excuse to keep his back turned to John and his irritatingly familiar sounds of pulling cutlery out of a drawer, clinking plates on the wooden table, opening the fridge – probably to search for something to drink.

They sit in silence across the kitchen table. Old newspapers still pile on one corner, and under it all, a safely tucked-away letter. As Sherlock swirls a spaghetti noodle around fork tines, he considers how easily he could slip into his old life again, the one he had before his fall from a rooftop. The one filled with evening banter and cases and anxious violin concerts.

There’s the bittersweet realisation that he doesn’t want that life back. Not quite. He was content in it, brushing happiness most of the time. But it was a contained contentment, with well-defined boundaries. There was, despite the familiarity, an invisible wall, well-polished glass between the two of them, a sense of ‘see but not touch’ permeating their lives. There was no talk about emotional aspects, and Sherlock knows he’s partly responsible for this, what with his repetitive self-assurances of high-functioning sociopathy and how ends justify the means even if that results in hurting feelings and sensibilities. And after, well. After, everything changed, and there was never a possibility of going back to that life. And Sherlock is, if not glad for it, at least accepting and again… content.

And he is learning a new sort of contentment here in Sussex. He’s done with chasing thrills, whether from adrenaline rushes or chemically induced. He still needs to fill his days with something to do with his hands and problems to distract him from those darker thoughts that nudge at the edge of his conscience. To the outside onlooker, this change of pace may seem to be unnatural for a man like Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock knows this is where he was always heading. This, or a premature end to his life, had he succumbed to the consequences of his less well-thought-through thrill-chasing moments. What many may not realise is that he is no less intellectually stimulated now than what he was back in Baker Street. It’s just different. And his isolation was helping him keeping the pace he was comfortable with, without the pressures of outside opinions. A managed serenity through the landscape of pain.

 _Alone protects me_ , indeed.

He looks up from his plate to see John scraping a last piece of tomato while throwing him a shy glance. It’s positively _hateful_ how the easy camaraderie of yesteryear has turned into this insuperable distance. They’re half a metre apart but it could be kilometres or eons for what it’s worth. And in the end, it was John who tried to bridge the gap by showing up on Sherlock’s doorstep with no baggage other than the weight of regret and sorrow.

It is also John who breaks this now insufferable silence. “Thanks for dinner; it was really good. You’ve always been an excellent cook when you put your mind into it.”

Sherlock sees no extra bite to John’s words, just the grateful acknowledgement.

“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it,” and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “it’s… nice to have some company, for a change.”

Because it is. The fine line between being alone and being _lonely_ is often banished from his mind; he doesn’t need to dwell on it lest those dark thoughts take hold. The line shines acutely bright now, is brought to the surface with John’s presence here.

There are two chairs at his kitchen table. There are two chairs on the patio. There are two armchairs in the sitting room.

What is this gap Sherlock is waiting for to fill?

John gives him a wider smile, one full of fondness, the sort that makes his face soft and open, and Sherlock aches to reply him in kind. Instead, he accepts John’s offer to do the washing up while he prepares fresh cups of tea. They retreat to the sitting room, and the oppressive atmosphere lifts and disappears in wisps, much like the thunderstorm outside gives way to a cool evening. They sink into armchairs, tea in hand, and continue to say nothing.

Sherlock realises he’s been sitting in the same armchair this whole time, the other one unused for so long. To see John in it is… nice.

“I called to check on Rosie before dinner; she’ll be fine until tomorrow. You think the road will be clear by then?”

This is John’s attempt to convey some normalcy back to their co-existence: focus on the practical details, let the earlier subject drop.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies in the same tone, “there is decent drainage in this type of soil and the rain is abating.”

“I bet you’ve been testing soil samples from all around this place,” John teases gently, that damned soft smile back on his face again.

The wave of fury Sherlock experienced earlier today tries to wash over him again. Yes, he’s tested the soil because that’s what one does if one is invested in making the most out of one’s cultivation. He needed to know what pH he’s dealing with and whether it requires correction; if there’s enough calcium, phosphorus, nitrogen; if it’s sand or clay, coarse and rocky or fine and dusty. Something in John’s comment grates on Sherlock’s nerves and he is aware he’s overreacting, but good _god_ isn’t he allowed to be annoyed at snarky remarks directed to the things he loves doing? He performed some of those analyses himself, let a company do the more complex ones, and he truly enjoyed discovering what he could and could not do with his newfound patch of land.

Instead of lashing out, Sherlock deposits his tea on the coffee table and takes a deep, weary sigh. This day has exhausted him. He has no good reply, so he says nothing.

Unfortunately, John interprets the silence as a license to continue talking. “Um. About what we talked earlier…” John rubs an embarrassed hand over his nape.

“No.”

The assertive _no_ hits John like a brick. His face drops, devoid of colour. Ah. He thinks Sherlock is stating he will not forgive John.

“What I mean is,” Sherlock clarifies, “we didn’t talk.” If he doesn’t say this now, it might never be said. “You appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the day, came to my house unannounced and uninvited to offer some generic apology—"

“Sherlock—”

“This is _my_ territory.” Sherlock will not allow John to interrupt him now. “My corner of the world. A small space I carved for myself. And I’m not just referring to my bees or the garden or the new paint job in the kitchen. It’s…” He shakes his head. “It’s my final attempt to move on. I suggest,” and oh how his heart constricts in his chest, “you do the same. On your own. Without having to seek some sort of redemption from me.”

John looks stricken. Sets down his now empty cup of tea on the coffee table. Nods dumbly at the floor, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock gets up from his chair, walks towards his bedroom, opens his chest of drawers with more force than necessary, picks up linens, walks back into the sitting room. John has not moved an inch, still staring at the floor with a vacant expression. Sherlock drops sheets and a blanket and a towel on the sofa. “Goodnight, John.” He turns around and marches into his bedroom. Changes into pyjamas. Lies down. Listens to the pinging of drops escaping the rain gutter onto the pavement. And does not sleep.

The next morning dawns bright and too cheery for Sherlock’s mood. He throws a dressing gown over his pyjamas and walks out of the bedroom, half-expecting John to be gone, half-hoping he hasn’t.

John is still here. He stirs awake with a groan. Sherlock feels a twinge of regret over making John sleep on the sofa – his shoulder will probably give him hell. They are not young men any longer. John flutters his eyes open and meets Sherlock’s. “Morning.” He sits up, legs still tangled in a sheet. He had stripped down to vest and boxers for the night but hurriedly reached for the rest of his clothes. “I’ll just— refresh myself and be on my way, then.”

“You’re, um.” Why is this so hard? “You’re welcome to have some tea and toast before you go. I’m out of other, er, breakfast things, I’m afraid.” John is slipping into his jeans; Sherlock looks away for privacy and uses his movement as an excuse to slide into the kitchen and prepare breakfast without waiting for John’s reply.

Pushing away with one hand, holding on desperately with the other. The precession increases.

They find themselves under a renewed blanket of suffocating silence while chewing toast with honey and drinking tea. Several times, John makes a small sound or moves in a way suggesting he’s about to say something, but it never comes. Sherlock doesn’t know if he wants him to say anything. It’s like the unforgotten letter: unread words have no consequence. They can stay in this limbo of unspoken apologies, never reaching out for each other again. They could… let it all slide, fall back into the separation already underway with Sherlock’s move to Sussex. Finally move through the canonical stages of grief and continue living.

Except… What is _living_? Yes, his days are filled with activities; he even enjoys most of them. However, he recognises the fundamental shift on his perspectives about the future between the _before_ and the _after_ : once, he had thought that his life was always going to be the Work with John by his side, and even if he didn’t dwell on exactly how the future would look like for the both of them, there was the prospect of always being _the both of them_. Sherlock had something to look forward, a future shaping up. What kept Sherlock awake last night was the current recognition he does not have a perspective about what his future looks like. It’s a black wall. He can’t imagine a future because he’s not shaping one up; he’s not expecting it to come, just accepting that it will flow past him. That days will succeed one after the other, and that in the meanwhile he will exist. Survive. Living? Until he exists no more, and that will be that. Death is treated as a hypothetical state until it inevitably becomes a fact; in reality, the fact is already here, just waiting for the right time to reveal itself. Dead man walking. He just hopes someone will take care of his bees when that happens.

Why he is trying to push John away? John didn’t invade his space; he had come to Sherlock in an attempt to reconnect, and Sherlock shunned his effort as unnecessary and inconsequential. 

What is the worst thing that can happen if he grabs the olive branch?

He’s so distracted by his internal musings he almost misses John getting up from the table and rinsing their mugs and plates. He disappears briefly into the bathroom, and when he’s out again, Sherlock takes in the dark bags under his eyes, a jacket folded over one arm, and car keys jingling in his left hand. “Well, I’m off, then. Thank you for the…” He makes a vague gesture that could mean ‘tea’, ‘stay’ or whatever, really.

Sherlock looks at him and sees his own sadness reflected in John’s face. “John, I…” How he will finish this sentence, he does not know.

Thankfully, John knows exactly what to say.

“It feels like all I do is apologise, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry I showed up unannounced. I’m sorry if my presence here was in any way detrimental to your stability.” Good god, had he rehearsed this speech? “I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” He squeezes his eyes shut, lips firmly pressed into an unhappy line. “You’re right about not opening my letter. There’s things in there you probably do not wish to read. Egotistical things you do not need to be burdened with.” He hesitates a moment before his next words, heavy and unwanted, extracted rather than freely spoken. “I won’t contact you again if that’s your wish.”

No, that’s not what Sherlock wishes. With increasing anxiety, Sherlock replies, “I do not want you out of my life, John, but right now I cannot have you in it.” There is a flash of relief mixed with pain on John’s expression, an unlikely combination that undoubtedly only John can pull off.

“Can I call you sometime?”

“Best if you e-mail me.” _It’s too much too soon otherwise_.

“Alright. Yeah. Yes, of course. Thank you, Sherlock.”

John leaves. Sherlock hears the front door clicking shut, a car motor brought to life, tyres on wet gravel. He’s alone again.

He needs to check the level in his water butt after all that rain, anyway.

A week passes. Then another. Sherlock throws away half of the pile of newspapers, deposits new ones on it, never reaches the bottom. The spring honey has been harvested, and the meadows around his property are in full bloom. His vegetable patch is producing more than he can eat, and Sherlock researches canning procedures. There is something ironic at how the food to be canned needs to be brought to the brink of destruction by subjecting it to intense heat for it to then last safely preserved and free from harm.

John doesn’t write. It’s fine. Sherlock doesn’t expect him to. People simply say such things as goodbye platitudes.

One warm July evening, Sherlock throws himself on the sofa and plops the laptop on his knees. He tries not to think too much on that the first thing he does, the first thing he’s been doing now for a fortnight in the evenings, is to check his mail. Preemptively, he tries to not be disappointed by the absence of John’s contact.

Which is why a new e-mail with John’s name bolded in the From field sends a rush of thrill through his body. His mouth twitches, attempting to smile. He straightens his spine and then relaxes into the cushions – it’s a long message.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Hopefully you won’t think I’ve been ignoring you for these last two weeks. So many times I tried to write a new message to you but found I lacked the words. Not much of a blogger these days, I’m afraid._

_Our meeting didn’t quite go as I expected. Well, I’m not sure what I expected, to be honest. For you to welcome me with open arms? Foolish of me to ever think so. I honestly understand your anger, and I respect it._

_There were many things I wanted to tell you when I visited. For instance, I wanted to tell you how Rosie is doing. She’s growing by leaps and bounds and is turning into a proper terror toddler. She misses you, you know? We visit Mrs Hudson from time to time and even when she couldn’t really form words, she would point upstairs and make inquiring noises, as if asking whether you were home. It always broke my heart a bit, I confess, but I tried to hold it together for the sake of Mrs Hudson, who would always reply her with ‘he’s not here, dear, maybe someday’. I think she still hopes for your return. I did too, until I visited you._

_What you told me about carving your own place in the world stayed with me. You are right, of course. I don’t have the right to bother you with my own shortcomings. I screwed up and have to accept the consequences. I thought you had run away from London, but it’s not only that, is it? You needed to find something new and free from the emotional luggage this environment pressed on you. You look better than you did back in London, healthier. After Mary died, I convinced myself your presence was toxic, when in fact it was the way around. Or maybe we triggered each other, I don’t know._

_What I do know is that I wish things were different. We can’t change the past, but I disagree with you when you say that the future will be what it will be regardless of words on a letter. Perhaps the words on that letter would have made a difference, perhaps not. But I fantasise about a future where you don’t hate me and you’re back in my life as my friend. I’m trying to be less of a mess. I don’t want ever to be that John Watson who took out his anger on the one person he ever considered to be a true friend. I don’t want to be that man. I hate myself for every bruise I created on your body. You didn’t deserve any of it, of all people. You’ve done nothing but to be supportive, protective and caring and it took too long for me to recognise it for what it is._

_I hope you don’t find this e-mail too maudlin :)_

_I hope you reply._

_Yours,_

_John_

Sherlock considers his next step. Should he reply immediately, thus reassuring John? Should he let him stew a bit longer waiting for Sherlock’s reply? He quickly decides against this; he’s not cruel.

 _‘I hate myself for every bruise I created on your body.’_ A landscape of pain, shaped by John Watson, on the pale skin of Sherlock Holmes. And yet, those were not the bruises hurting the most.

It takes him a long while to compose a message he is happy with.

_John,_

_Thank you for writing._

_First and foremost, please allow me to clarify this: I do not hate you, John. I am incapable of hating you. Perhaps it’s the self-destructive side of me speaking, but even when you hurt me physically, I did not hate you. I suppose it is because I disliked myself quite a lot at the time. When under the influence, my brain tells me I am in full control of my mental faculties when in fact it is quite the opposite._

_But I acknowledge your apology and your regret at that episode and its consequences. Your visit has also been on my mind. I feel I was unkind to you and your effort to make amends. It caught me by surprise when it really should not have done so. You are a warrior but also a healer, a combination I always admired on you._

_You asked for my forgiveness. I don’t know how to reply. Does one simply say ‘I forgive you’ and all is well? It feels like it falls short of its true objective. How do I give you my forgiveness, John? I want to do so, but how do I convince myself (and you) that it has been indeed exchanged? It is not a facetious question – I truly do not possess the data to analyse the outcome. You’ve always been the one to provide me guidance in such matters – I fear I need it once more._

_I’m happy to know all is well with Watson. As for her pointing upstairs, she might be missing the treats I surreptitiously gave her, more than my physical presence. I guarantee it was nothing more terrible than unsweetened puréed fruit, though._

_Allow yourself to be maudlin._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

_PS – Your grammar is still frankly appalling. And a smiley, John, really? SH_

He clicks on the Send button before he thinks too much about what he wrote.

The following day, Sherlock is a nervous wreck. He spends the day huffing around the house, desperately trying to think of chores that will not require him booting up his laptop. When the shadows start getting longer, he distracts himself with watering his backyard, but this is a short-term relief. He’s too wired up to gain any appetite for an early dinner. Finally, he gives up, starts the computer, and opens his e-mail.

John has answered.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I can’t express in words how relieved I am you replied. For a moment, I thought maybe you would regret accepting even this type of contact and you would just slip away again. It’s easier to write some things than say them face to face, although I hope one day we will be comfortable enough in our skins again to be able to do_ _so._

_I am so thankful you want to forgive me. I really am. Thank you, Sherlock, thank you, a thousand times thank you. You ask me how, though. I can honestly say I don’t know. I agree with you it’s not just a matter of saying ‘I forgive you’. I guess that, in fact, your forgiveness has to come from me, in the sense that I have to work hard to earn it. Then, maybe, if/when you are ready, it will feel natural. Sorry if this is a bit undefined, I hope you know what I mean._

_Maybe the question is, what do I do to deserve forgiveness? Or maybe, it’s something I should_ not _do? I wondered if I should write back so soon, if this is too much. Tell me if you feel like I’m invading your space again._

Sherlock takes a break from reading to ponder on these words. Is the return of John Watson in his life and home intrusive? Since John visited, Sherlock has felt… lighter. The first few days after John’s departure were confusing – Sherlock felt off-kilter, like he had been sent spinning and was now recovering his balance. The spinning top comparison seemed apt once again. As time went by, gratitude for John’s initiative took over. A fraught visit, but a courageous and honest gesture on John’s part, nevertheless. Sherlock does not regret his anger during John’s stay because it helped him to define the problem.

He continues to read:

_For now, I hope this level of interaction is okay. I thought I could send you some photos of Rosie. I’m attaching one with this mail. And I am sure she misses you, not mashed bananas :) and I’ll use as many smileys as I want :P_

_It’s not only Rosie who misses you._

_Yours,_

_John_

Sherlock is suddenly starving.

They write back and forth for the next few days, each e-mail flowing easier and slipping slowly but steadily into the familiar terrain of light banter. In a silent agreement, they forgo talking about what constitutes forgiveness or what the next steps may be – simply because they are already being taken. These are letters that Sherlock opens without thinking twice about it, and still destiny, time, fate, whatever one may call it, trudges forth. They cannot change the past, but perhaps they help mould the future.

He thinks about the physical letter John sent months ago. Why is he still resisting opening it? He mulls over something John said, or rather let slip, when he was stammering his apologies:

_There was some more but, um. Maybe now’s not the time._

More? In the heat of the moment, Sherlock had not reacted to this. As he reflects on the context of John’s admission, he becomes aware that there’s more than a request for forgiveness in the missive. There’s urgency prickling at Sherlock’s senses to go and tear open the envelope, find out what it is, but at this point it feels like a betrayal to his own principles and to John. Clearly, it is something that John thinks prudent to hold back until the right moment comes.

Sherlock will not open the letter.

There are pairs of chairs everywhere in this house.

Not for the first time in these last few weeks, Sherlock wonders if he isn’t seeing something moving about out of the corner of his eye. He blames the long shadows cast by the mid-July evening sun, leaves fluttering in the wind. He definitely does not think about how his mind is trying to fill a vacuum he had not wanted to acknowledge.

Those second chairs had been ornamental until they were not. Now they’re _empty_.

The realisation punches Sherlock in the chest. He’s pacing the sitting room, and his footsteps echo, and have they always done so? He had not noticed how every sound he makes in this house reverberates freely, without suffering interference from other sound waves produced by other people. Voices, laughter, shouting, telly. It is only Sherlock who produces noise, the cottage otherwise quiet as a crypt, a premature tomb for the one living soul between these four walls.

The admission arrives quietly: Sherlock is not simply alone – he is lonely, god he is _so lonely_ , and it took him an incredibly long time to find the distinction. The silence is buzzing in his ears, and it is hateful and unwelcome and—

He strides to the corner with the music stand, ready to pick up his violin and fill the void with melody, but as soon as he holds the case, he knows this is not what he needs. Right now, he needs distraction from the walls that are closing in on him; he needs noise not coming out of his hands. There’s neither a television set nor a stereo that can be turned on, so he turns to his laptop, choosing to stream something, _anything_. Cruelly enough, the operative system decides that now is a fantastic time to install a heap of updates. Sherlock groans.

He snatches his mobile from a pocket, but instead of opening some noise-producing app, he finds himself scrolling through his contacts. His heart thumps in his chest, the dull pain from an old bullet wound making itself known.

He stops at John’s number and taps the phone icon. This is a break in the pattern they had agreed upon without actually having agreed on anything, but Sherlock finds himself too desperate to push away the tendrils of panic nearing his consciousness to care.

John answers after the second ring.

“Hey, Sherlock.” He sounds surprised but pleased. In the background, Rosie makes splashing sounds. Ah, bath time.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock feels like an idiot now. He’s intruding on John’s and Rosie’s evening routine, and for what? “I hope I’m not interrupting.” _Of course he is, stupid, stupid!_

“No worries, just finishing bathing Rosie. Got you on loudspeaker.” Rosie’s babbling becomes clearer, and Sherlock is surprised to learn how much her tinny voice helps to calm him down. “Did you decide to call instead of e-mailing? I hadn’t time to write you today, if you were wondering.”

A natural assumption. John usually e-mailed Sherlock in the early evening, presumably after feeding and bathing Rosie; Sherlock would reply later in the evening. Admittedly, he usually glanced at his inbox earlier than that, in anticipation of a new message, but he didn’t want John to think he was clinging to these moments.

“I… no, I…” Eloquence slips away from Sherlock’s constricting throat. Hearing John and Rosie is helping, but enough of his anxiety must be seeping through.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” There’s a rustling sound and a toddler protest – John is drying his daughter, pulling pyjamas over her head, and still manages to detect Sherlock’s distress.

No, this will not do. He does not wish to worry John with this childish feebleness – and an idea pops into his mind, a thought that had been in fact creeping in slowly over the past few days. “I just wanted to…” _listen to your voice, feel your presence, have you to fill the void_ , “to ask you if— if you are taking summer holidays.”

“Oh, um, yeah, starting next Monday, in fact. Nothing planned, probably just spending time with Rosie around London.”

Sherlock is acutely aware that his next words shape a future. They should not rest in limbo as those resting on a sheet of paper inside a sealed envelope.

Nothing happens to unopened letters.

His voice trembles ever so slightly and his heart races as he speaks. “Come here for a few days. With Rosie. There’s lots of space for her to play. Short drive down to the beach.”

He can practically hear the cogs turning in John’s head.

Shit, shit, shit. Was this too much? The memory of their row still echoes in Sherlock’s mind; yes, their e-mail exchange had lifted some of that suffocating atmosphere, but to invite John right back into an environment he might perceive as hostile was probably a stupid idea. Sherlock is second-guessing his idea now and is about to take back his offer when John answers:

“That— that would be wonderful, Sherlock. Thank you. Yeah, thank you. Rosie is going to love it there, I am sure. Can we, um. Can we come down on Monday, then? _”_

Sherlock’s chest unclenches in relief.

“That would be adequate. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Bloody _hell_. Can’t he _think_ before he speaks? He should have set parameters – _you can stay a couple of days_ – but instead he just threw the doors wide open.

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to impose. Look, I need to put the little pest to sleep; can I call you in an hour or so? To discuss practicalities.”

“Of course, John. Apologies for disturbing you at this hour, but it was…” _absolutely necessary lest I suffocate in my own panicked loneliness_.

“No need to apologise, Sherlock. You can call me any time. You know that, right? Any time you need.” There’s a creak under John’s feet, the sound of a door softly clicking shut, and bedlinens whispering as John lays Rosie down in her cot.

And if this is not John in a nutshell. Handling a toddler’s bedtime routine, he still manages to worry about Sherlock. The initial alarm in John’s voice turns into a soothing caress in those caring words, whispered through the phone line both for Rosie’s and Sherlock’s benefit.

“That would be good. Yes.” Sherlock clears his throat. “I will have dinner in the meanwhile, anyway.”

“Yeah, me too. Rosie is knackered, she’s almost asleep,” John murmurs.

Sherlock breathes away the dread that had threatened to cripple him. “I look forward to your call later, then.”

“Yeah,” John replies, “me too.” There is a pause, as if he needs to add something but doesn’t know how to. “Talk to you later, then. Bye,” he whispers to not wake the slumbering toddler.

The line goes quiet, and so does the house around Sherlock. But this silence is filled with the promise of _later_ , unthreatening and peaceful.

Sherlock hurries into the kitchen to warm up his dinner.

John keeps his promise and, to Sherlock’s relief, does not dig into the real reasons for Sherlock’s impulsive contact earlier in the evening. They decide the Watsons will stay a week; they muse about how the weather usually is like in Sussex (‘it’s really not that far away from London, John, not exactly the tropics here’, ‘yeah, but maybe the nights are chillier?’); they chuckle at the ill-thought accommodation solutions (there are none – John will have to bring Rosie’s travel cot, and Sherlock promises to arrange a li-lo for John); they reconsider the length of the stay depending on the quality of the li-lo (and Sherlock has already decided he will take it, and offer John his bed; he tries not to dwell too much on how that sounds like). They talk about inconsequential things, subjects that would have driven the before-Sherlock up the walls with sheer tedium; small things that now fill the aether between London and Sussex and deconstruct the choking atmosphere of the empty house. The small talk gives way to yawns as the night advances; John’s voice lulls Sherlock with comfortable words, eases his mind, distracts him. They bid their farewells and neither comment on the fact they’ve been talking for almost two hours.

Sherlock puts his mobile on to charge and goes to bed.

A scant few days that nevertheless stretch endless separate the phone call and John’s arrival. Sherlock spends this time with repairing one of the beehives, pruning the lilac bushes, fixing loose stones on the pavement outside his front door. He studies and sketches plans for a bigger shed – the current one holds all he needs for beehive maintenance and his honey extractor and related tools, but there’s no space to work in there. Would be nice to have a separate bench for his chemistry equipment, too. He’ll need running water and electricity for this extension though. He would have done all of these activities regardless of visitors but now he enjoys making plans and is looking forward to materialising them. He spends an inordinate amount of time reading reviews for inflatable air mattresses and drives almost 20 km one sunny afternoon to purchase a ridiculously overpriced one. The furniture in the sitting room is rearranged three times in diverse configurations, then all put back in their original spots, and Sherlock doesn’t really know why he’s done so.

When Monday comes, Sherlock is as prepared as he can be and more unprepared than ever. He wakes up while the dawn still stretches pale and pink; he inspects the beehives, despite having done so just yesterday; he verifies – twice – the child-proof locks he installed on the lower kitchen cabinets. He’s polishing the stovetop (again) when he hears the same car sounds that haunted his driveway just a few weeks ago. He battles his eagerness in welcoming John and Rosie and waits instead until John knocks on the door.

And there they are. Sherlock cannot avoid the sunny smile spreading on his face, and his nervousness abates somewhat at a mirrored smile on John’s. He is holding a rather cranky toddler in one arm, car keys dangling from his hand, a duffel bag at his feet. “Hey, Sherlock.”

“Hello, John. Welcome.” Sherlock straightens his back, clasps his hands behind his back and steps aside to let them come in; John deposits Rosie down on the floor. She grabs his leg and hides her face after throwing Sherlock a distrustful glare.

John jingles the car keys. “Could you help me unload the car? I feel I brought half of the house with me, but you cannot imagine the amount of crap she needs.”

Sherlock can indeed not imagine, removed from her life – their lives – as he has been for so long. No wonder she does not recognise him, does not trust this stranger in an alien place. With practised movements, John lifts her again to plop her down on one of the armchairs, the one Sherlock too easily started thinking of as _John’s chair_. Rosie grizzles but is quickly distracted by a bunny plushie John magicked out of a pocket. John turns back expectantly to Sherlock. Ah, yes, he was waiting for Sherlock’s reply.

“Of course, John,” his eyes still locked on the small girl. Not so small now, not as small she was last time he saw her, when she was learning her first steps. She’s silent now, holding the plushie by its ears and ignoring her surroundings.

“She’s not had her mid-morning snack so she’s not in a great mood. Any chance for an early lunch?” He’s walking out of the door while casually throwing the question over his shoulder, as if this was a common domestic scene between them. It takes Sherlock a few disconcerting moments to shake out of his semi-shocked state and react.

There’s a small study next to Sherlock’s bedroom and they both agree it will be Rosie’s makeshift bedroom; there is, however, no space left for the rather oversized air mattress Sherlock bought. There’s always something.

“There’s space in the sitting room; you can have my bedroom, of course.”

“Nonsense, Sherlock, I’m not kicking you out of your bedroom.”

“You’ll be nearer Watson to tend to her needs.”

“She sleeps through the night, there’s no needs to tend to.”

“Still.”

“I’ll be fine with the air mattress out here, Sherlock.” John smiles one of those fond and slightly exasperated smiles that have not illuminated his face like this for so very long.

Sherlock tries not to stare. “Fine.”

The rest of the day oscillates between stilted awkwardness and amiable conversation. John had brought an alarming amount of food with him, arguing it was only fair if they were staying for free; this led to some banter about Sherlock’s eating habits and visible shock and subsequent embarrassment on John’s side when he realised Sherlock had a proper routine for meals, and even _ate_ them. John presents Sherlock with a caddy of Fortnum and Mason’s Afternoon Blend, which they premiere at teatime with homemade shortbread biscuits sent by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock helps John assemble a highchair for Rosie’s mealtimes, and they discuss a schedule for the week.

He observes John’s evening routine after Rosie’s nap, with a snack and running around the backyard until she’s exhausted again, preparing her dinner, winding down to bedtime with a bath and a story. John’s voice floats from the study in the cadence of the children’s book Rosie demanded him to read. Sweet and calm, it reaches Sherlock in the kitchen as he preps dinner for the adults. This scene strikes him as so absurdly domestic he has to shake his head to dismiss the fantasy of a possible future.

The morning after sees them driving south to a pebble beach, where rocky craters usually allow the sea water to puddle and warm under the summer sun. Not today, though – the water remains cool as the sun hides behind a stubborn cloud ceiling. With the enthusiasm only toddlers have, Rosie happily ignores the low temperature and splashes around, collecting pebbles and screeching in delight when she spots a crab or a small fish. John keeps one eye on her and another on a book, some tedious crime novel he has read before – well-thumbed pages with fingerprints and wear corresponding to the size of John’s fingers, obvious. Sherlock supposes John finds comfort in the familiarity of the story, and he won’t need to concentrate much on the frankly pathetic storyline while making sure his daughter doesn’t wander off. Besides, Sherlock cannot ruin the ending for him by deducing who the killer is from the book’s cover image since John already knows.

They sit close, each on their own towel, near enough to almost share body heat. There’s a cool breeze, and neither have taken off their clothes. Sherlock sorts pebbles into piles according to colour and shape – he didn’t bring a book. All he has is his mobile and his head to lose himself in. He casts furtive glances at John, sees how the sea breeze plays with strands of his silver hair. Contemplates how not so long ago there were more blonde than grey hairs. This look suits John though; it’s a nice complement to the crow’s feet and smile lines, faint but there. Maybe John has had more reasons to smile lately?

The obvious reason is grabbing handfuls of pebbles with chubby toddler fingers and dumping them next to Sherlock’s own piles. John grins at her.

When was the last time Sherlock had made John smile?

Rosie stretches a hand towards Sherlock. In it, a smooth stone, pale rose with grey veins, wet so the colours pop out. Sherlock accepts it, speechless – and Rosie simply goes back to play in the puddle where she found the stone. He turns an incredulous look to John, who simply continues to grin, now at him. “I think she likes you.”

Absurd. Why would this child, from whose life he has been conspicuously absent, like him? He’s not exactly likeable the best of days. “She just thought I needed a stone for my pink pile,” Sherlock says, waving a hand at said pile.

“Hmm, maybe she wants to have her own Study in Pink?”

A beat. The waves wash over pebbles.

“That,” Sherlock huffs an ill-disguised chuckle, “was absolutely terrible, John Watson.” And with that, they are both chuckling, and the breeze feels a little bit fresher and the skies a little bit less grey.

The butter melts slowly in the hot frying pan, the milk solids separating from the fat in a jellyfish-shaped pattern, then bubbling away into a nutty fragrant concoction. Sherlock cracks two eggs over the pan, makes sure the whites don’t merge. One egg for each adult, well-separated and defined. Proteins denature irreversibly and coagulate the white opaque and solid. He slides the eggs sunny-side up to two plates, sets them on the table. John deposits toast on the plates. A concerted dance, movements around each other as a well-practised waltz.

Not a memory Sherlock particularly wishes to dig up right now.

It’s been four days since the Watsons arrived and nothing is the same and everything is business as usual. John and Sherlock exist; days are planned around Rosie’s needs for activity in the mornings, naps in the afternoons, early dinners and bedtime routines. Sherlock is fine with this.

What Sherlock is not fine with is her being used as the centrepiece of avoidance. As routine settles, there is the growing sense of unease that the important words that need to be exchanged are being left on the backburner.

He thinks about the letter.

John’s mood also fluctuates, between the exhaustion of a toddler’s tantrums and the quiet evenings of comfortable shared silence. Except ‘comfortable’ doesn’t quite seem to describe those moments they find themselves in when Rosie is sleeping. There’s a conversation waiting to be started and both are too afraid to ignite it.

They sit to eat breakfast. Sherlock takes out a jar of his honey and watches now with undisguised fascination how John spreads it liberally over his toast, licks an errant drop on his thumb, closes his eyes in utter bliss. “This is absolutely delicious, Sherlock. The tastiest honey I’ve ever… Christ, how is this possible?”

It should not irritate Sherlock this much when John enforces domesticity on their shared presence. The sharp-fanged, ugly darkness looms in the background though, and extends its tendrils slowly, slowly. The precession wobbles and wavers.

Sherlock tears his gaze from John’s dealings with his honey and continues to say nothing.

The day goes to shit.

The bright sunny morning turns into a stormy afternoon, not unlike the one that had welcomed John weeks ago. Rosie is cranky and refuses to take her post-lunch nap, full tantrum mode on until she dozes off due to sheer exhaustion. They scrap plans to drive down to Brighton lest the driveway floods. The air is warm and sticky, and the skies threaten to unleash a deluge. When they finally do, the power fails. The computer is useless, the Wi-Fi non-existent, the books have all been read, John’s mood sours, Sherlock’s mood positively _ferments_ , and they are trapped in a cottage with closing walls and living ghosts. The little girl is still crabby after her nap, picks up on the grown-ups’ unease, whines all the way through supper, refuses every book John attempts to read her, falls asleep with big, fat tears drying on her chubby cheeks.

John leaves the study with heartbreak and exhaustion painted across his features. The men eat sandwiches for dinner, too wrung-out to try to cook anything in the semi-darkness.

Outside, the storm quiets down as the evening settles. Indoors, the atmosphere is thick and stifled, and not even the open windows help in airing the house. The treacly mood sticks to the walls, settles itself as a layer of syrup over everything. They should just call it a day, go to sleep or at least pretend they will, but the newfound routine sees them settling in the sitting room, with a torch and a few flickering candles.

There are no distractions now. No excuses to perpetuate avoidance.

John drums his fingertips on the armrest. Jumps up from the armchair and stands before the French doors, his back to the room. Takes a deep breath. “Are you not curious at all about the letter?”

An unexpected question, Sherlock has to admit. Yes, he’s curious. Curious about the unsaid words, written but unread and therefore unreal. “You revealed its contents during your first visit.” He’s fibbing, and they both know it.

John turns abruptly with a disappointed frown. “You must remember I told you there were things I didn’t say then. You,” he points an accusatory finger at Sherlock, “of all people, don’t forget a bloody thing.”

John’s building irritation prickles Sherlock, turns his stomach, raises his hackles. He gets up from his chair; confusingly, his knees wobble, but he stands. “Very well. Do you want to tell me what that was?”

“Why won’t you read the letter?”

“I’ve told you—”

“NO!” John’s bellow startles Sherlock as it penetrates him, icy and sharp. It strikes Sherlock what the cold sweat running down his spine means: he’s afraid.

He’s afraid of _John_.

In the shroud of a badly illuminated sitting room, John’s eyes are feral and menacing, and the intimidating step forward while he shouted made Sherlock flinch and recoil. He chastises himself for displaying such weakness, but what can he do? His body still remembers even if his head has tried to forget.

He blinks. Blinks again. Breathes a shaky breath. Curses himself again. Takes another steadier breath and looks at John.

John is paralysed, mouth open. The intimidation gives way to horror, his whole demeanour shifting from anger to regret. He slowly raises his hands, palms up, shaking his head in disbelief. His hands continue up, up, towards his own head. Fingers thread through silver blond strands, his eyes downcast to the worn wooden floor. “Oh my god.” He gulps. “Oh my god.” He starts trembling, and the third _oh my god_ leaving his mouth is shaky and mournful.

 _Are you having an earthquake_ is the extremely unhelpful first thought crossing Sherlock’s mind. The answer is obvious. The slide of two tectonic plates causes seismic activity as accrued energy is released in the form of tremors with defined frequencies and intensities. Quakes are unpredictable, both timing and strength. When an earthquake strikes, all you can do is take cover. Which is why John seems to be shrinking, shrinking, and Sherlock fears he will disappear into thin air.

“John.”

“I wasn’t.” It’s more of a sob than a statement. “I wasn’t going to. God, Sherlock. No. God, I’m so sorry.” John is rooted on the spot, spooked like a frightened animal.

It is Sherlock who steps forward now. Careful, slow. Until they are toe-to-toe. He swallows down his fear. “We cannot postpone this conversation.”

John shakes his head. “No. I suppose not.” He rubs his face, drops his hands, and forces himself to look back at Sherlock. “You are weeding vegetables.”

Trust John Watson to be the only person capable of simultaneously confusing and enlightening Sherlock. “What exactly— is your point?” The question is laid with pauses and carefully placed words.

“You ran away from London, from your life, down to bloody Sussex, to raise bees and weed vegetables.” A tentative hand finds its way to Sherlock’s left eyebrow. “You ran away from me, and you’re still running because I frighten you. Because I hurt you.” Soft fingertips trace the thinning eyebrow. “Never again, Sherlock. It will never, ever happen again,” John delivers between ill-disguised sniffles, eyes red-rimmed as he fights against tears.

The touch is light and hesitant and sends shivers through Sherlock’s whole body. John’s thumb asks a silent question over Sherlock’s left eyebrow. “The eye healed just fine, John,” is the reply. “The ribs too.”

The hand descends to Sherlock’s chest; a warm palm presses over his heart. “What about inside them?” A question whispered in sorrow.

Sherlock’s heart is thudding so hard he is sure he sees John’s hand pulsate in tandem with the systole-diastole twin beat. His throat constricts and thickens. He aims for nonchalance. “The bullet scar is there, obviously, but there’s very little residual pain from the wound.” He fails miserably.

“Sherlock.” John does not accept the way out.

“You know I’m heartless.” With the glass so thoroughly shattered, who is Sherlock trying to fool? _Thud-thud_ , it goes on trying to jump out of his chest and into John’s hands.

John’s left hand curls around Sherlock’s waist. “That,” the heat of the touch penetrates layers and layers of clothes, epidermis, dermis, fatty tissue, muscle, through arteries and veins, down to the bones, “is the biggest lie you’ve ever told me. And yourself.”

The silence of the countryside floats in through the open windows and embraces them. The spinning top loses its battle against the forces of physics. 

As if in a dream, Sherlock feels his hands wrapping around John’s shoulders and pulling their bodies closer. He bridges the small distance between them and presses his lips to John’s.

They both stiffen and relax in unison as mutual surprise gives way to acceptance. The kiss is brief and chaste, but long enough to leave intent and taste reciprocation.

When they separate, they stare at each other in awe.

Is it this simple?

“Sherlock.” An invocation to a higher power.

“It’s not healed,” Sherlock confesses in an exhale, “but it’s healing.”

The house buzzes around them with the stream of power returning, as the fridge hums back to life and electronics charge up. The moment between them is awkwardly broken but not lost. They reluctantly release each other and, in noiseless agreement, go separate ways to sleep.

The fifth day dawns bright and promising, flows easily in an apology for yesterday’s dark moods. The trip to Brighton goes without hiccups: Rosie chases seagulls, they eat ice-cream while strolling the pier, and Sherlock and John walk side by side a few inches closer than usual. The salty sea breeze ruffles Sherlock’s curls; more than once, John tucks an errant curl behind an ear or away from Sherlock’s eyes, his own soft and filled with affection. Even if they often need to wade and squeeze through tourists, spirits are high. Hands brush, then tentatively hold each other. It finally feels the air is cleared, and that the conversation was had, even if not all words were said.

There is one thing pending though. Sherlock will take care of that later today.

They dine in the garden after Rosie falls asleep. Plates hide the pretty mosaic on the small table; a glass of chilled Riesling pairs well with the lightly butter-fried sole. The air is warm and sweet, filled with summer and peace. Their knees bump, there’s small touches and easy smiles. Sherlock hates to break the moment with something that might rip discord in this serenity but needs must. He convinces John to pour them a nightcap from the liquor cabinet in the sitting room and uses the excuse of taking plates in the kitchen to secure his true objective.

He slips the letter from underneath the newspapers. The envelope is greyish with old ink but looks otherwise more or less the same as it did the day it arrived. It’s not as threatening as Sherlock imagined it on that day.

It’s just words on paper. They can’t change the past, but they don’t determine the future either. That is all up to him instead.

When he joins John in the sitting room, there are two tumblers of whisky waiting in John’s hands. John sits on the sofa, the place next to him open and beckoning. Warmth floods Sherlock at the prospect of invited proximity and he only hesitates when he catches John’s faltering smile as he spots the letter in Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock sits next to him; accepts a tumbler, takes a sip, sets it down. John takes a few hasty gulps.

Liquid courage. Interesting.

It is very quiet again, although it’s not the heavy silence of before. It’s expectation, anticipation of the moment that will coagulate irreversibly. A letter opener is produced from somewhere, and the silence is interrupted by the quiet ripping of blade against paper. Sherlock removes the sheet inside while looking at John, who doesn’t quite meet his gaze.

Sherlock starts reading, an impatient skimming first, eyes delayed at a few keywords. He lingers on a particular sentence in the end. His breath hitches. He goes back to the start, reads slower.

Next to him, John shifts in discomfort and empties his tumbler.

There’s the same constructed apology John presented him weeks ago. There’s regret, and sadness and longing.

And there, right at the end, the hitherto unspoken words that now land without a chance of being taken back:

“ _I have loved you since the day we met. I love you now. I will love you until the day I die. It is all I have to offer._ ”

Sherlock reads again and again, burns the words into the recesses of his mind, into the ventricular walls of his heart, lets them run from aorta to capillaries, weaves them into the fabric of his existence.

“ _John._ ”

The drinks are abandoned on the coffee table, together with a torn envelope and a letter that flutters to the floor when a waft of summer evening sweeps through open windows.

The air mattress stays deflated in a corner of the room.

Button by button, clothes are shed, and reverent hands slide over naked skin. Teeth graze jaws and cheekbones, tongues taste sweat and salt and each other, heat builds between pressing torsos.

They make unhurried love for hours, slow and soft and honey-sweet, the acceptance of the inevitable future they shape with hands and mouths, absolution and reckoning. Their names are spoken in gasps of ecstasy, in the Morse code of beating hearts, between soft sheets and sweaty bodies. There is tenderness, and embraces, and sharing and urgency and calm and _staying_.

Sherlock lives, resurrected by every caress from John’s fingers.

“Are you coming back to London?” John asks timidly in the wee hours against Sherlock’s long, pale neck, following with a soft kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder, sweat cooling on their skin.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t know.

Forgiveness is letting go of the pain that shapes your landscape. A reshaping is in progress. But it will take time.

“Are we alright?” John whispers.

Forgiveness is not a moment. It’s a process.

The answer is filled with honesty and resolution. “We will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550275) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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